I've got a confession to make. I've been infected with a bug once thought dormant in North America ... a virus that was once rendered nearly obsolete by poorly-timed rap albums, gang-related shootings, marijuana blazing, and tattoos. If you haven't yet guessed, the illness to which I allude is NBA-itis and it seems to once again be "FANtastic!"
Since the departure of one Michael Jeffrey Jordan (the 1998 departure, I should add), things on the hardwood just hadn't been the same. The beauty of the "Dream Shake" and the "UTEP Two-Step" had been replaced by kids not yet in their 20s doing little more than running, jumping, and dunking on the court and rapping, partying, and clowning off of it. The artwork of the game, the beauty that defined its renaissance era in the '80s and '90s, had eroded to such an extent that it became difficult to sit through even half of a game without longing for what used to be.
Well, long no more ... you need only tune in your television set to one of the holy trinity of NBA stations (ABC, ESPN, or TNT) to once again recapture the fluidity of a well-executed give-and-go, the purity of a 24-foot jump shot, and the rhapsody of a baseline spin-move and power dunk. Even more shocking, you will likely see a plethora of passes, v-cuts, and even (gulp) a little defense being played!
No, I did not just take a Shaquille O'Neal elbow to the head and I do fully realize this is the very same sport that brought us Ron Artest's Magic Mystery Tour through the Palace at Auburn Hills just a few short months ago, but stay with me here.
Where there once was a coach-choker (Latrell Sprewell), a teen-groper (Kobe Bryant), and a weed-smoker (Damon Stoudamire), there is now a Chinese giant (Yao Ming), a coach defiant (George Karl), and, well, another weed-smoker (sorry, Carmelo Anthony, can't win 'em all). Where we once had internal strife: Shaq/Kobe, Larry Brown/A.I. (or vice-versa), Vince Carter/Raptors, we now have inner-peace: Shaq/Dwayne Wade, Larry Brown/No A.I. (or vice-versa), Vince/Nets. The chest thump has been replaced by the chest pass. The show-up replaced by the lay-up.
The bad seeds remain, to be sure, but they are shipped off to outposts in Portland, Orlando, and Golden State to wallow in anonymity. Those who remain in the public's eye are forced to conform to a disciplinarian coach's way or face the certain embarrassment of having to catch the mascot at his team's halftime dunk contest, or worse, having to lose to said mascot (are you listening, Vince?).
This year's playoff experience, while burgeoning in terms of duration, has already proven to be chalk full of passion, heart, and moments from a bygone era that had been lost. Clutch shooting, hard-nosed defense, and aggressive rebounding have been the hallmark of teams winning thus far in the playoffs.
San Antonio, recent winners of an NBA title and a year-long seminar on how to win games while generating as little excitement as possible, lost to the younger, more athletic version of themselves in their first playoff game as the Nuggets — yes. the Nuggets — look to make their mark on this year's playoff picture.
The Baby Bulls, led by Chris Who-scioni, upset the favored Washington Wizards in a series that has to be the most obvious sign of the apocalypse to date. The Mavericks are in "Big Trouble in Little China" as they make their way to Yao's house in Houston with their playoff hopes strung thinner than one of Dirk Nowitzki's legs. I won't even start talking about Reggie Miller's last hurrah in Beantown, for fear of him hitting 30-foot jumpers over me in retaliation. All in all, we're talking a whole lot of excitement and drama that is resuscitating a sport that was quite obviously drowning in its own financial windfalls.
Serendipitously enough, a year of rebirth has featured a resurgence of big man play, three-point marksmanship and team-oriented motion offenses, all staples of past league champions and the calling card to the great teams of the last two decades in the 20th century. The on-the-court play is almost a carbon copy of the Magic's Showtime Lakers, the legendary Larry Bird-led Celtic teams, and Jordan's Lova-Bulls with the glorious exclusions of those archaic form-fitting uniforms and those equally atrocious Bill Laimbeer pick-and-rolls.
Undoubtedly, Red Aurbach is smiling in heaven ... what? You say he's still alive? Okay, never mind, but geez, the guy must be 110 by now. No matter, you get my point. Even the most diehard throwback fan can get some satisfaction from today's game.
With King James on the horizon, Celtic Pride somewhat restored, Shaq finally content, and T-Mac, Vince, and Amare Stoudemire peddling their athletic wares in front of packed houses once again, the future of the NBA looks brighter than it has in a very long time. Stalwarts that were on life support just four or five short years ago have new life. Sure, there are still some concerns ... Ron Artest, any Portland Trailblazer, varying degrees of franchise turmoil in New York, Toronto, Atlanta, and New Orleans ... but without failure, there could be no success, so you just got to grin and bear it if you're one of these have-nots.
The positive signs are all there ... technical fouls are down, more of the "old regime" of players and coaches are finding themselves at or near the top of team organizational charts, playoff viewership is on the upswing and, most importantly, both the Bulls and Wizards will not be able to play into the next round, perhaps lengthening our world's demise.
While, admittedly, there is still work to do for the NBA to once again be heaped into the same wildly popular and lucrative pile as the NFL, it does appear a corner has been turned with the fans. Long story short, this is one sickness I'm willing to let run its course.
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